by Maggie Nerz Iribarne

We sat on the fence dividing our yards. We watched the clouds gather in the distance. We observed our neighbors going about their business, oblivious to what was about to hit. 

Yesterday, we followed the instructions: two bites from an apple snatched from an orchard growing beside water, a yellow taper candle lit and burned down to its nub, the words, over and over, the incantation for a sudden, catastrophic storm. 

Stella and I bonded over our shared hatred for parental authority. For me,  the rigor of high expectations, for Stella, downright abuse. 

In autumn, we discovered a book of spells inside a tree trunk in the woods behind our development. We spent the winter whispering the words we found on its pages. At first, nothing. Then, Stella, after a particularly bad run-in with her father, spat out the spell, the one with the roses drawn in deep red up the side of its page, “A Spell to Bring on a Horrible Storm.” First, we snickered at the straightforwardness of the title. Then, Stella’s soft mutterings grew to shouts, “Bring the lashings, bring the rain, bring the destruction, bring the pain!”  Lightning struck, peeled out of the sky, grounded itself beside us. Smoke rose, filled our nostrils with a burning incense. We had found our power. We would try again, try for more. We needed to plan. 

So, there we were watching, waiting in summer’s humid air for a storm that would wipe everything away. A storm that would clear a path, set us free. As we intended, the winds kicked up, a lawn chair took off and slammed into the side of a house. A hose levitated like a snake, high in the sky, hissing with rage. We caught  snatches of screams on the heightening winds, cries of terror. For the first time, fear and regret pooled in my chest.

Our plan was to leave together, take flight. We knew we could disappear with just the words, “Take us high, teach us to fly,” while holding a feather from the first robin seen in spring and the snipped shoelace from an enemy’s boot – ours taken from Stella’s father. We were ready for our final escape. 

The storm intensified, I felt the desperation of Dorothy as she searched for Auntie Em during that famous Kansas tornado.  I abandoned my friend, bolted from the fence, rain in my face, pushing against the wind. I ran to my house, banged on the locked door. My mother’s teary eyes and open mouth appeared in the window, all I needed to see. I fell into her arms. 

I turned to see Stella rising, rising.

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Maggie Nerz Iribarne practices writing in a yellow house in Syracuse, New York. This year, she won first and finalist prizes from Dead Fern Press, Zizzle, and Honeyguide Literary Magazine. She keeps a portfolio of her published work at maggienerziribarne.com.